


Pro Patria Mori

by pureimagination



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Afterlife, Discussion of Death, Heaven, Just in case anyone here is uncomfortable with the f bomb and variations thereof, Moved up the rating due to language, Multi, Title is from John Lauren's grave and also Latin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 16:14:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7445587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pureimagination/pseuds/pureimagination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death isn't the end. It's just the beginning. AKA "Alexander Hamilton's loved ones are watching and judging his entire life from heaven."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John Laurens

Dying was quick. Gunpowder in his nose, the taste of it in the air, men and horses screaming, Redcoats all in a line...then a bullet in his bad shoulder (and wouldn’t Ham have been so frustrated with him?), and then he was falling

Falling

Falling

* * *

 

“I am just saying, it seems ridiculous to just _assume_ that they’ll disband the black battalion due to this, Rachel. If he convinced them, truly…”

 

“He didn’t truly convince them, you could tell! They were merely tolerating his passion and indulging it for the sake of the war, but without him there to light a fire under them, it will fizzle and die.”

“But surely your Alexander…”

 

“I love Alexander, but he has a new baby at home and virtually no income. He’s a good man, but great causes are often the property of the wealthy, and that he has never been. But look, he’s waking up.”

 

John blinked awake to the sounds of two voices, one bearing a South Carolinian accent. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, noticing immediately the lack of pain. Gone was his bad shoulder, his aching ankle, his sore muscles. But all that stopped mattering as he immediately recognized the South Carolinian woman kneeling next to him.

 

“Mama,” he breathed, reaching for her and feeling tears in his eyes as she rushed forward and they embraced. She looked younger than he remembered, but then, he’d only been sixteen when she’d died. A scared boy, too soon swept away to Europe by a grieving, distant father.

 

“Where am I? What is this? Last thing I remember is…” Falling. Gunpowder in the air. A bright blue sky.

 

“Well, baby, different places have different names for it, but the one we use is heaven. Welcome to heaven. Oh, Jack, I’m so proud of you.”

 

“But...heaven? But...what I did with Alexander--it’s the most vile of sins. It promised certain damnation, all the preachers said that--”

 

“Child, there’s a great many Hamiltons that have committed unpardonable sins, but my son isn’t one of them,” the other woman said, and that’s when John realized. The woman had dark hair, gorgeous eyes…

 

“You’re Alexander’s mother,” he breathed, then scrambled to his feet to bow courteously to her, to her unfettered delight, reminding him of Alex’s laugh. God, Alex. Did he even know yet? Would anyone tell him? Surely his father would see their correspondence…

 

His father would see their correspondence. It was probably a good thing that he was already dead or Henry Laurens would murder him then and there.

 

“We don’t need to stand on formality, John. Your mother and I have had quite the time watching the drama between the two of you. Honestly, it’s the best entertainment I’ve had in ages.”

 

“You can--you were _watching_? The entire time? But that means you--but--” John spluttered, and while his mother rubbed his back sympathetically, Rachel just laughed. Oh, yes. Ham’s mother indeed. With all the qualities that had made John fall hopelessly in love with the immigrant, as well as the ones that made him want to throttle him.

 

“Don’t worry, darling, we have some sense of decency. But you can’t blame me for keeping an eye on the wildest of my children, can you? And sweetheart, I am so, _so_ proud of you. Even if you did take a bit too little care with your life, you fought for the right things. You fought against evil, and there isn’t a thing more any of us can be asked to do.” She kissed his forehead, standing up on tiptoe, To his horror, John found himself weeping again, but he quickly wiped at his eyes.

 

“Is Jamie...is he here? Is he with you?” John asked, swallowing hard and thinking of his little brother, stolen so early from them. He’d been _ten_.

“He’s running around here somewhere, I’m sure,” Eleanor said, rolling her eyes. “He’s got boundless energy, just like his big brother at that age. But he’s fine, Jackie. He’s alright, we all are. Now, come on, you must be dying,” there was an inelegant snort from Rachel, “to check on your Hamilton. I’ll show you where we can keep an eye on our idiot loved ones.”

 

“Alexander isn’t--” John paused, thinking back to the number of fights _Alex_ had started. “He’s my idiot, at least. And his...wife,” okay, maybe he couldn’t quite stop the wrinkle of his nose, “will keep him in line, if anyone can.” But he let himself be led over to the viewing room, finding Alex and beginning a whole lifetime of frustration.


	2. George Washington

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make no promises as to updating speed, but I thought I would mention here since I didn't last chapter: the full inscription on John Laurens' grave reads "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori" which translates mean (I think) "It is sweet and good to die for your country." I took the last bit for the title which means "To die for your country." I will be going through most of the characters in the order they died and having them rejoin in heaven, all the way until Eliza.

Death was expected and even welcome for George Washington. He was old now, having seen Martha’s children all buried and their children all grown. He had done his duty to his country, and had had a least a couple of good years at home in Mount Vernon. While he could have perhaps prolonged his life some by changing out of his frozen clothing when prompted, or by calling for a doctor sooner, he couldn’t find any regrets. He was home, with his wife, servants, and doctor. While the pain in his throat was not preferable, he still had his mind and, to some extent, his voice. It was more than most had, in their last moments. 

 

So he kissed his wife’s hand, bade her farewell--he would see her soon, he knew, but he hoped not too soon--and closed his eyes. He let himself relax and just slip away. 

 

* * *

  
  


When he woke, it was bright and he was a young man again. Younger, certainly, than he’d been upon his death, with all his teeth (and that had not been the case for many, many years, but it was certainly a relief) and none of the myriad of pains that had plagued him for so long. He immediately sought out Patsy and Jacky. He had never known the other two Custis children, but those two he had loved as his own. Losing them had been a grief he’d almost broken under. Especially Patsy. Dear, sweet Patsy, plagued by seizures. He’d been there, as she’d drawn her last breath, thrashing on the bed while everyone tried to save her. 

 

But when he found her, she was just as young as she had been when she died, but without any of the paleness and pain that had so often plagued her young features in life. Here, she was practically glowing, and she ran over to embrace him immediately. Following her soon was Jacky with his (too young in George’s opinion) bride. He spent time with them for a while before he was guided to where he could look in on the living, hoping to check on Martha, when he heard muffled, familiar swearing from inside the room. 

 

“Oh my God. Hamilton, just...oh my God. Just stop. Talking. God, I love you, but you are a  _ moron _ , dear God. What are you doing? No, no, Jesus, put the quill down, that gets you in enough trouble, and Adams  _ already hates you you dumb little shit _ . Is this what happens when nobody is around you to hold your leash? I mean, it’s your own fault--wait, where’s Hercules? Why don’t you two talk anymore? He’s supposed to be supervising you, goddammit!” 

 

That sounded...oddly familiar. Frowning, George stepped into the room, and he couldn’t help the slow grin that spread across his face. He hadn’t seen this particular member of his military family in so very long, and it struck him again how  _ young _ Laurens had been at the time of his death. Twenty-eight. Older than his stepchildren, but still little more than a boy. 

 

“Colonel Laurens. Keeping an eye on Hamilton, I presume? He’s the only one I can think of to inspire quite that level of frustration.” 

 

John spun around, instinctively tossing a salute up before he realized even who he was talking to. Washington. He had noticed that he’d died, of course, but he hadn’t expected to run across him just yet. He grinned, remembering what he’d noticed of the will. What he’d heard. 

 

“Excellency. It’s...it’s so good to see you again. And you.” He swallowed, hard, unable to keep the emotion from his face. “You freed your slaves, sir. You listened to me.” George’s entire expression softened as he nodded.

 

“Between you and Hamilton, I was hardly able to do anything else. You quite convinced me, Colonel. Now come here and let me see you.” He didn’t hesitate to pull the boy into a warm embrace as soon as he was close, and John didn’t seem to hesitate to return it. 

 

“It’s good to see you, son. Now, what is Alexander doing now? It can’t possibly be worse than that Reynolds Pamphlet.”

 

“ _ Nothing _ can be worse than the Reynolds Pamphlet. That was the  _ stupidest  _ thing I’ve seen him do since, well. Me.” John grinned and George grimaced. He’d always known about the pair of them and not particularly cared, but it was odd to hear it said aloud. But then, what was the worst that could happen here?

 

“Oh, he sounds all calm now, but I about washed his mouth out with soap when I heard what filth was coming out of his mouth when his Hamilton started seeing that terrible woman.” George turned to see two women enter. One, the one speaking, was clearly a Southerner, possible South Carolinian...ah. He caught the resemblance as he looked at the young Colonel next to him, but he couldn’t quite place the woman at her side. Still, he bowed to both. 

 

“Mrs. Laurens. Mrs...I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

 

“These Southern gentleman, so formal. I should have married one of them, spared myself a lifetime of misery. I had many names, President Washington, but the one I think you’ll recognize would be my son’s,even if it was never really mine. Hamilton’s my boy.” Now that she had said it, George could see the resemblance, particularly about the eyes. Hers had that same flare of hungry intelligence that had first made Alexander stand out to him. He bowed again, even deeper this time. 

 

“Your son does you credit, madam. He’s a brilliant man, if...not making the best choices at the moment.” John muttered something about idiots and tomcats, and his mother reached over--somewhat comical, as the woman had to be at least half a foot shorter than him--and flicked his ear, prompting a yelp of pain. 

 

“Indeed. I’m proud of my Alexander, I always have been, but I’m afraid he’s a bit too much like me. Intelligent, determined, and proud even to a fault. As we’ve seen. But I wanted to thank you, General. You looked after my boy when nobody else would.You gave him a chance to make something of himself, to shine.”

 

“He made something of himself with or without my help,” George demurred, only to be taken aback by her snort of derision. 

 

“I am not a stupid woman, General. In fact, I daresay I’m just as smart as my son. There’s no place for immigrant bastards in that world, not even ones like Alexander. He did all he could for himself, and it wasn’t nothing. I would have been proud of him just for writing his way to America, for getting to King’s College, but without you, he never would have been able to do what he loves. And he loves that country, that government, more than anything. So thank you, for giving him a chance to be more than just another immigrant soldier.” George was flummoxed by this woman (in the same way, he reflected, he had often been flummoxed by Alexander--he was starting to understand where the boy had gotten it), but he bowed to her (when in doubt, he mused, simply bow. It makes you appear dignified rather than utterly baffled). 

 

“Then, Madam Hamilton, I am glad to have helped your son. He more than earned it.” He cleared his throat. “So, Colonel Laurens, what  _ is  _ he doing?”

 

“Fighting with Adams over foreign policy. And the military. And the future of the Federalist Party. Jefferson’s having a field day. I don’t know how you worked with all of them for so long, sir. I would have dueled all of them already. Especially Adams. Fuck that motherfucker.”

 

“You would have been an appalling politician, John.”

 

“Worse than Alexander?”

“Given that Alexander has yet to actually duel any of his coworkers,yes. Barely, but yes.”

 

“But I wouldn’t have published my affair.”

 

“Your affair...with Hamilton? No, because you would have been  _ hanged _ , Laurens, it’s hardly the same thing.”

 

“True.” There was a lull as they watched Hamilton break a quill in his fury. “But  _ Adams _ , sir.”

 

“I know. Eight years, Colonel.  _ I know _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, some fun facts that I found out by both research and by virtue of general history geekdom (feel free to skip this is just me geeking out):  
> -Washington died only two years after leaving office. He went out for a ride and to do some work around the land and when he came back, he refused to change out of his cold, wet clothes. He then developed laryngitis and after three doctors attempted a variety of treatments including bleeding (like, a lot of bleeding; honestly, probably enough to actually kill him), creating blisters (ew), and pouring molasses and honey down his throat (it almost suffocated him. A++), he finally dismissed all but his personal doctor. He pulled out his wills and selected the one he wanted, having Martha burn the other. He died with his wife, his personal servant, and his doctor at his side, as peacefully as you can expect when you have acute laryngitis. 
> 
> -While the Washingtons never had any children of their own, Martha came into the marriage with two children from her previous marriage, Patsy and Jacky (two other children died before she met George). Apparently, Washington was a doting stepfather and treated the two of them like his own children, which makes their young deaths even more tragic. 
> 
> -Patsy, when she was twelve, started have severe seizures, likely due to epilepsy, which was untreatable at the time. The Washingtons tried to find a variety of treatments and cures for her, traveling all over the country; however, it didn't help. It got to the point that Patsy was having two seizures a day. When she was seventeen, she finally died during a seizure. George was there and, according to witness accounts, was openly weeping and praying as his beloved stepdaughter seized. 
> 
> -Jacky lived a while longer. He got married when he was 19, and engaged when he was 18 (to George's absolute FURY) to a 16 year old girl. George required that he wait a year and attend King's College. Jacky had four children before he died, with the two youngest being raised by George and Martha after his death.He died during the war due to some sort of camp fever. He was 26. 
> 
> -George Washington did put in his will that all of HIS personally owned slaves (rather than the Custis slaves that Martha and her children technically owned) would be freed after Martha died. She ended up freeing them early to prevent a revolt. I assume this had to do with John Laurens and Alexander Hamilton's abolitionist efforts. Or it could just be that George Washington was trying to do the right thing when he died. Either way, it is notable. 
> 
> -I actually looked up what Hamilton was doing in 1799, the year Washington died, and he...was fighting with Adams. Adams had made him Inspector General of the Army and then proceeded to ignore his (unsought after) foreign policy advice and underfund the military before disbanding it entirely and firing Hamilton. He also really did think Hamilton had it out for him...which he might have. Possibly. He was a bit of an ass. 
> 
> -We actually know very little about Rachel Fawcett, Alexander Hamilton's mother. We know that she married a man named Joseph Levien but abandoned him and their son due to abuse (he later went on to make her life living hell). She met James Hamilton, Alexander's presumed father (although there is some belief that his actual father was a man named Thomas Stevens, whose son Alexander bore a striking resemblance to, enough that some thought them brothers. This is supported by the fact that Stevens immediately took Alexander in after Rachel's death but not his brother James. ANYWAY) on Nevis and lived with him, although they never officially married. However, according to Chernow (and fyi this is literally the only chapters I've gotten through because that book is LONG), Alexander may have gotten his aspirations from his father who was always looking to "get rich quick," but he got his intelligence, work ethic, and looks from his mother, so I tried to play that up here a little bit. 
> 
> SO. Sorry for the infodump, but I just think it's neat. Sad. But neat. (History in a nutshell). Thanks to those who commented and please tell me what you think!


	3. Philip Hamilton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one...this one was hard.

Death, for Philip Hamilton, was a  _ mistake _ . He stared down at his pistols--no, not his, his father’s. Eacker could have brought his own but he gave the advantage to Philip--and tightened his jaw. He wasn’t going to shoot anyone. He would satisfy honor the way his Pops had told him to: fire in the air. Eacker would follow, he was a man of honor, if cruel. They’d both live another day. 

 

One. Start walking, take a deep breath. He would be alright. He would go home and hug Angie and they’d be  _ fine _ . 

 

Two. He had to do this. His father might have done terrible, unforgivable things, but George Eacker didn’t even  _ know  _ him. He had to stand like a man. Just like his father always had. 

 

Three. What if he decided to shoot? What would happen then? 

 

Four. “ _ Your mother can’t take another heartbreak _ .” He couldn’t do this to Ma. Not when he’d seen how devastated she’d been at Pops’ betrayal. No, he’d come home. 

 

Five. He raised his pistol to the sky. They still had five counts to go. No way Eacker could mistake this for anything else. He was throwing away his shot. He was doing the right thing. His Pops would be so proud of him. He’d make his family proud. 

 

Six. God, he couldn’t wait to tell his friends about this. He was the first one to be in a real duel. They’d be so jealous.

 

Seven. There’s a pop. He doesn’t realize what happened at first. 

 

There’s red on his coat. Ma will be pissed. She hated when he ruined his clothes. 

 

Now he’s on the ground. It hurts. It  _ hurts _ . The doctor is there. It  _ hurts _ . Richard is shouting at Eacker, calling him a coward. That’s grounds for another duel. 

 

He didn’t want to do any more dueling. 

 

They were sending for his parents. No, no, Pops will be so disappointed. And Ma...but he can’t find his voice just yet. Pain is everywhere. It  _ hurts _ . He’s scared. 

 

He fades in and out, but then his parents are there. Pops has never looked so pale. Was he sick again? And they’ve both been crying. They’re holding his hands. 

 

No, he has to explain. He has to tell them. “I did exactly as you said, Pop. I held my head up high. I…” He swallowed hard, listening to his father assure him, but he had more to say. “Even before we got to ten...I…” It  _ hurt _ . “I was aiming for the sky.” His father didn’t look proud. He looked shattered. He didn’t want that. 

 

Then his mother was there. God. She looked so sad. No, Ma wasn’t allowed to look sad. He’d always done his best to help her smile. 

 

“Mom, I’m so sorry for forgetting what you taught me,” he choked out. It was hard to breathe, now. It hurt. He was scared. But he remembered his mother trying so hard to teach him to let things go, to forgive slights. God, he’d forgotten. But no, now she looked even more devastated. 

 

“You...you remember...you taught me piano?” he asked, coughing. It tasted like copper. God, he was so scared. He didn’t want to die. He had so much more he wanted to do. But he was left with this. He reached out and took his mother’s hands, forcing a smile. “You would...put your hands on mine.” There it was. A little smile. Not much of one, nothing on the tears she was still pushing back. God. Ma had cried too much.

 

“You changed the melody every time.” He managed a choked laugh. It hurt. Everything hurt.  _ Fuck _ , he was so scared. 

 

“I would always change the line.” It came out choked, but when he tried again, he couldn’t  _ breathe _ . His mother was there, her hands on his cheeks, calming him. Pops had his head pressed to his shoulder, clearly grieving already. 

 

“ Un deux trois quatre cinq six sept huit neuf,” she whispered, holding his cheeks. He echoed her, but breathing was getting harder. It was getting darker now. He was  _ scared. _ She was counting again, and he tried. He wanted to keep counting. He had so much to do. God, who would take care of Angie? She needed help, she needed him. But he couldn’t focus on the numbers, he couldn’t breath.

 

It was dark. He was scared. 

 

* * *

  
  


Philip opened his eyes to silence. It didn’t hurt anymore, but he didn’t understand what had happened. He slowly climbed to his feet, when the silence was broken by an angry man storming out of a room. 

 

“What in the hell was that? What were you thinking, engaging in a duel over a stupid  _ reading _ , oh my God!” The angry man had clearly been crying, but that didn’t stop Philip from scrambling away. 

 

“Oh no you don’t you little--”

 

“Colonel! That’s quite enough.” After a moment, Philip recognized President Washington, although younger than Philip had ever seen him. The President reached out and grabbed the angry man by the backof his collar, hauling him back. 

 

“Just think what Alexander will do if he finds out this was the welcome you gave his son!”

 

“Oh, come on. He would not even be a little surprised! Just let me shake him a little for his stupidity!”

 

“ _ No _ . If I didn’t shake you for your idiocy, you can’t shake him. Now, be a gentleman and introduce yourself.” The angry man sighed, but bowed reluctantly. 

 

“Colonel John Laurens, at your service.” Philip blinked at him. He knew that name. But…

 

“But you’re dead!” he blurted, and there was a beat of silence. Washington cleared his throat. 

 

“What precisely do you think you are, son?” Oh.  _ Oh.  _ He’d died. That’s what the darkness had been. He sat down somewhat abruptly, blinking hard. A pair of women came out, and while one paused to glare meaningfully at John, the other crouched next to Philip. 

 

“ _ Men _ . Utterly useless sometimes. I’m sorry, sweetheart, I know this must be a shock for you. But it’s alright. This is heaven, which unfortunately means you’re dead. We were quite shocked as well--we thought you’d have a while longer before you’d meet us. But where are my manners? Rachel Fawcett, at your service.”

 

“...Grandmother? Pops told me about you. Not much, but he said you’d died when he was little.” Philip was so confused, but he could see his Pops in this woman. Especially around the eyes. “Um, sorry, it’s...it’s nice to meet you, and all, but I can’t be dead.” Another beat of silence where nobody seemed to know what to say. 

 

“And...why not, Philip?” George asked gently. 

 

“My sister! Angie, she needs me! And Ma and Pop, they never--after what Pop pulled, they need something to keep them together, and...and...I had so much left I wanted to do.” He swallowed hard and dropped his gaze. John sighed and went over to crouch next to him. 

 

“Yeah. That’s the refrain of the young dead. We had so much left to do, huh, kid? But I’m sorry, Philip, you are dead. Your family goes on without you, for better or worse. Most we can do is watch and yell at them, without them hearing us. Come on, I’ll show you where you can keep an eye on your sister, if you want?” Philip swallowed hard, but he nodded slightly. 

 

“Yeah, I...I guess that’s alright.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT TIME:
> 
> -Philip, after being shot, actually took 14 hours to die of infection, which is why I made his dying scene a bit longer than the previous two. Also, I just have a lot of feelings about Philip's death. 
> 
> -His little sister Angelica actually did suffer a severe mental break upon learning of Philip's death. I don'tknow the official terms, but she was essentially reduced to a state of childlike simplicity. Alexander tried everything to get her well, but she was eventually committed to a doctor's care, where they said she would speak as if Philip was still alive and often wouldn't recognize her family. She continued to play piano and was, from all accounts, well cared for (certainly better than many other mentally ill people in this time); however, it is heartbreakingly sad that an apparently brilliant and lively young woman was so badly traumatized by her beloved brother's death. 
> 
> -In case that wasn't sad enough, apparently after learning that Philip had been shot, Alexander actually collapsed out of shock. The family never recovered from the loss (and I'm sure a CERTAIN SOMEONE going and getting SHOT three years later IN THE EXACT SAME PLACE didn't help at all either).
> 
> -In case anyone was wondering, even though John and Philip were both young (Philip was younger though), the reason I had them react so differently to dying was twofold:  
> 1\. John was in a war. When you go to war, there is some expectation that you would die. John was hardly unaware of that and so would probably have been prepared to die at any time. Philip was fully expecting Eacker to throw away his shot as well, and so dying, even if it was a lot slower, was probably not something he was prepared for.   
> 2\. If you look into John's behavior in the war, he...wasn't fighting like someone with a lot to live for. Lafayette apparently said something along the lines of "It is not Laurens' fault that he was not badly wounded or killed, for he tried his best to do either"or something to that effect. Laurens got wounded ALL THE TIME, and he died AFTER THE WAR WAS OVER. I don't necessarily think he was suicidal, but I do think he didn't particularly care if he lived or died. Philip though...he was unquestionably brilliant. Like, all his professors agreed that he was just as brilliant or MORE brilliant than his father, and he had a better start in life. He was legitimate, a natural born citizen, graduating on time (Alexander starting college at 19 was REEEALLLY late by those standards--most people started at 15 or 16 back then) and had a strong (if somewhat scandalous) family name behind him. He had plans. Had a future. Dying was not in his plans, and so I think that made it harder to swallow. 
> 
> Once again, thank you for reading, please forgive my geeking out (I JUST REALLY LOVE HISTORY OKAY) and let me know what you thought! (Also...I am going to sleep after this chapter. I think three in like three hours is acceptable. :D )


	4. Alexander Hamilton

Death, for Alexander Hamilton, was like greeting an old friend.Which was ironic, considering what happened to him. Considering who shot him. 

 

He shouldn’t have taken the challenge. He knew that even as he received the letters, even as he tried, desperately, to write his way out of being challenged. But when the challenge came, delivered by van Ness, Alex knew he didn’t have a choice. His reputation had suffered enough; backing down from a challenge would destroy him politically. Besides, it was  _ Burr _ . They’d fire in the air and that would be that. They were both gentlemen, after all. Even friends, a long time ago. 

 

Still, after the loss of Philip, he knew that honor was no longer guaranteed in these affairs, if it ever had been. He’d been vocal enough in his disdain for the practice since his son’s death precisely for that reason. 

So in the hours before the duel, he woke up early enough to write two letters. Just in case. One to his dear wife, explaining all, apologizing, begging, once again, the forgiveness he had never deserved but nonetheless somehow got from her. The second was for everyone else, explaining his intentions in the duel. He would not shoot Burr. He would, for once in his life, throw his shot away. He was just signing the last one when Eliza woke. 

 

“Alexander? Come back to sleep,” she sighed, exasperated.

 

“I have an early meeting out of town,” he explained with a fond smile, sealing the letters and going over to pull the sheets more firmly around her shoulders. She lifted her head and groaned as she saw the windows.

 

“It’s still dark outside. Come back to bed, that’s enough,” she sighed, reaching out for his arm. He kissed her lightly. 

 

“I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.”

 

“Just come back to sleep.”

 

“This meeting’s at dawn.” Another exasperated sigh. God, he loved her so much. 

 

“Well, I’m going back to sleep.” Chuckling, Alexander kissed her forehead lightly and made sure she was warm enough--even putting another blanket over her, they were both getting older now, after all--before he left the room. He paused at the doorway, committing the sight of his sleeping wife to memory. 

 

“Best of wives and best of women,” he murmured. He fetched his pistols and met Pendleton in the carriage. 

 

As they took boats across the river, Alex tried to pray. Tried to beg forgiveness for engaging in these acts of honorable murder, for going against his beliefs. Prayed for mercy for his soul, for Burr’s, for Philip’s. The doctor with them, Dr. Hosack, had seen one Hamilton man ( _ man _ . Philip had barely been more than a boy) die under his care, and Alexander prayed that, should it please the Almighty, that he would not see another. 

 

Then they were there. Weehawken. At dawn. He had Pendleton take the other pistol across to Burr as he examined the place his son died. He imagined, if he looked hard enough, he could still see the bloodstains from three years prior. 

 

He took up his pistol and examined it. The gun they had shared, that Philip had used to shoot his shot into the air. God, he had been such a gentle soul, such a gentle person. He would have never hurt a soul. He must have been so scared. 

 

Moving to the north position, Alex took a shaky breath and, fumbling a little, pulled out his glasses. Maybe Burr was softening. Maybe they could both come through this with their honor and their lives. He sighted down his pistol to see, but only saw a scared, angry man glaring back at him. He wondered about the younger Theodosia. She was about Philip’s age, making her twenty-one this year. Married recently. Burr had to want to return to her, yes? See his grandchildren? Surely he, too, would throw away his shot. 

 

Luckily, Alexander drew first position. He could shoot first. He took the ammunition from Pendleton and loaded it in. Had Philip’s hands shaken when he’d loaded his bullets? Had he looked to his friends for false courage? Alexander almost wished his hands would shake, but a soldier’s habits never quite fade. They’re steady as stone as he loads his shot and powder. 

 

Taking a deep breath, he looks out and sees the sun is rising over New York City. His home. The place that had taken a terrified young bastard immigrant and let him make a name for himself. Let him make a legacy. Would this be his legacy, throwing his bullet away? If Burr fired, is this how people would remember him? As the fool that threw his shot away? Would Jefferson destroy his work? Would it be only remembered as a failed attempt? Would they remember him in the war, in building the Constitution, in the Coast Guard...or would only that damned pamphlet and this duel be remembered of him? 

 

Would Eliza be alright? Could he throw his shot away, knowing that it might once again devastate their small family? They’d already lost Philip and, in a possibly crueler way, Angie. Little Phil was just three. 

 

But he looked at the gun that he shared with his son, and at the man facing him across the way ( _ “Are you Aaron Burr, sir?” “That depends, who’s asking?”...”Talk less. Smile more. Don’t let them know what you’re against or what you’re for.” “You can’t be serious.”...”Can we confer, sir?” “Is this a legal matter?” “Yes, and it’s important to me.”) _ and he knew that he couldn’t live with himself if he murdered Burr. Burr had always hated dueling, hated confrontation. Maybe it would be alright.

They put them through their paces. He counted to ten, remembering the last view he had of his wife. Maybe, if this went well, he could be home before she opened her eyes. God, he couldn’t wait to see her again. 

 

He raised his pistol to the sky.

 

“ _ Wait! _ ” 

 

* * *

  
  


When Alex opened his eyes, he wasn’t confused about what happened in the slightest. He’d held on for a while, after the bullet, after all, enough to feel his life draining from him. In this long race of life, with Death constantly nipping his heels, it had finally caught up to him. He’d survived long enough to tell his wife goodbye, to kiss her hand and bade his love to take her time. He’d taken his last communion and repented of his sins, and now…

 

It was quiet here. He sat up slowly, looking around. It seemed to be a thousand things at once. The mansion he’d worked in with Washington. The island before the storm. New York City. 

 

“I can’t believe that, of all the things to kill you, it was a lucky shot by  _ Burr _ . The man has the worst aim of any soldier I’ve ever seen. And it’s  _ Burr _ .” Alex turned and grinned at the familiar face. The President looked younger than Alex had seen him, without the cares of a country resting on his shoulders, and with a much younger Martha Washington standing at his side. 

 

“Mr. President,” he greeted, and then allowed himself to be embraced in a way he never would have allowed himself to be when alive. “Is...are there others, here?” In answer, George just nodded towards a woman.

 

In a moment, Alexander was a sick twelve year old again, begging his Mama to wake up. He reached out and embraced her (and had she always been so little? His childish mind had painted her so much bigger). “Mama,” he murmured, pressing his face into her shoulder as she hushed him and pet his hair. 

 

“Alexander. I am so proud of you, my boy,” she whispered. “I told you you’d do great things.Of course, some very stupid things. Like dying in a duel!” Alex flinched. “But great things as well. I am so proud of you, my boy. Now, come on, I believe there are others that you would like to meet.” She took his hand, but only a second later, a nearly-forgotten voice rang out as a furious John Laurens came storming out. 

 

“You! I have a bone to pick with you!” he snapped, pointing at Alex. His mother stood off a ways, her face in her hands. Even in the afterlife, Jackie was completely uncontrollable. 

 

“John!” Alex cried in delight, then frowned. “Wait, no,  _ you _ do not get to reprimand me for dying in a duel!”

 

“Like hell I don’t!”   
  


“Language, there are ladies present! And you died  _ after the war was over _ ! If anyone has a right to be angry, it’s me!”

 

“ _ You?! _ Um, excuse me, but did I  _ ask  _ the British to shoot at me? Did we exchange  _ letters  _ negotiating  _ when and where _ we would shoot at each other? No! Also,  _ I shot back at them _ !” Alex snorted and tackled John. Both Rachel and Eleanor took a step forward, but Washington just sighed as the two wrestled on the ground. 

 

“Don’t bother,they aren’t hurting each other. This is practically courtship for them,” he said, pained. Martha tugged on his collar with a grin and kissed his cheek, causing an answering grin to form on his face. 

 

Sure enough, Alex ended up pinned by Laurens, who stole a kiss in revenge. It lingered a bit longer than a purely playful kiss should, and when it ended, they were both a little pink-cheeked. 

 

“Now, that’s a proper hello,” Alex said with a grin, and John rolled his eyes at him, clambering off of his former lover. 

 

“Alright, you tomcat. Come on, up with you. I’m sure you want to see your son.” Alex brightened. 

 

“Philip’s here?”

 

“No, Alexander, somehow all the  _ other _ people you loved who have died are here, but your eldest son whom you held as he died, he just didn’t make the cut.”

 

“You’re an ass.”

“You love me anyway.” Alex huffed, but kissed him again because  _ John _ was  _ here _ , and then immediately looked for his son. What could he say to him, after being the reason he’d gotten killed? What could he do to make up for what he’d done? John led him into a room, where Philip was waiting, looking just as uncomfortable as Alex felt. But upon seeing his son, Alex immediately went over and went to his knees in front of him, tears in his eyes. 

 

“Philip, my son, I am...I am so, so sorry. I never should have let you go to the dueling ground. I should have told you to stay home, to damn honor and stay alive. You had so much you hadn’t done yet, so much you were  _ going _ to do, and I helped you throw that away. I am  _ so sorry _ .” Philip immediately went down to the ground as well wrapping his arms around his father. 

“Pops, no, stop. I forgive you, alright. I never even blamed you, no, shh,” he soothed, holding his sobbing father close. “I’ve been watching. You...God, Pops, you tried so hard. I saw it. You took care of Angie, as best you could, you made up with Ma, I couldn’t…” He huggedhis father close as Alex calmed down. “I’m so proud to be your son, Pop. I always have been and I always will be.”

 

“Look at my son. Pride is not quite the word I’m looking for; it’s so much more,” Alex said, smiling and kissing Philip’s forehead. “Also, what do you mean you were watching?” Philip laughed and pulled Alexander to his feet. John wrapped an arm around his lover as they showed him where he could watch his remaining family. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts:
> 
> -I took a lot of inspiration for this one from both "The World was Wide Enough" and from the song that was cut from the final Broadway production, "Ten Things One Thing," which goes more deeply into Hamilton's possible mindset during the duel. ALSO, if you listen to both one right after the other, you are guaranteed to once again be crying over people who died over 200 years ago!!!
> 
> -For an ACTUAL fun fact, apparently Martha Washington, who was nearly a foot shorter than her husband George, would actually reach up and grab his collar to pull him down to her level when she needed something. I just found the image of GEORGE WASHINGTON being tugged around by his tiny wife ridiculously adorable and had to include it. 
> 
> -I wanted to include Martha in the last chapter, but when I Googled her date of death, it was actually a few months AFTER Philip's, so she's in this chapter instead, having been in heaven for a couple of years now. 
> 
> -Now a less fun fact: Alexander did actually lose consciousness after being shot in Weehawken. His doctor, the same one that had tended to Philip after his duel, managed to bring him back long enough to die in agony a day later, but he did call for his reverend from Trinity Church (where he may or may not have attended regularly, but of which he was a member) to receive a final communion. 
> 
> -ALSO, although the musical paints him as slightly less so, Alexander was apparently deeply religious. His friends in college recall him praying for two hours a day and studying the Bible constantly. One of his first sponsors to help him come to America was a pastor, who actually encouraged him to publish the letter he wrote about the hurricane (it was the last time someone had to encourage him to publish anything lol). 
> 
> -There doesn't seem to be a clear consensus on what Burr thought after the duel. Some say that he was incredibly regretful and spent the rest of his life mourning what he'd done to Alexander (which is the stance the musical seems to take and so it's the one that I'll take as well), but his statements about it were all over the place. At one point he was stroking a bust of Hamilton's face and saying "There's the poetry," but at other times, when asked about the duel, he basically said the bastard had it coming. So ???. Also, if you ever want a fun reading experience, just Google what his life was like. For a reportedly brilliant man, he was a mess. Like, lit himself on fire, lost his umbrella, got charged for treason by Jefferson sort of mess. Me being me, I find it hysterical, and I will definitely be talking about it in his chapter. 
> 
> -I know that, realistically, John Laurens and Alexander would never, even in death, be okay with so openly showing their relationship because of the stigma and all that. But, dammit, it's my story, they're in Heaven, and Ijust want to have two men in love be able to be in love without fear!!! So, they are going to be ridiculously affectionate and in love at all times and everyone will be okay with it!!
> 
> -I almost wanted to mention that Philip looked like John because I am going with the musical characterization mostly, so imagine them like that, but also look up Philip Hamilton's image and then Alexander's (or, you know, pull out a ten dollar bill). They are CLEARLY father and son historically.
> 
> -For anyone who is wondering, this will be the last of our "core" characters for a while--that is, the people we both loved the best in the play and knew the most about historically. The order of the upcoming chapters will be: Angelica, Hercules, Jefferson, Lafayette, James Madison, Aaron Burr, and then Eliza, due to theorder of their deaths. 
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who is commenting and leaving kudos! I really appreciate it! I will try to write those chapters soon (I WILL FINISH THIS STORY IF IT KILLS ME). Tell me what you think (also, if any of you are history nerds too and find an interesting tidbit, please tell me. I love stuff like that!)


	5. Angelica Schuyler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHY. IS. THERE. NO. INFORMATION. ON. ANGELICA. *muffled screaming*
> 
> So, anyway, most of her death scene is entirely fiction because I could NOT find anything on what killed her? I'm assuming a fever, but for all the information out there, it could have been vicious lawn gnomes.
> 
> ALSO a huge thanks to Little_Lion_Man for mentioning Peggy's death earlier! I didn't realize, so I'm going with the reason she wasn't there when Philip and Hamilton showed up was because she was busy with her children up there. But she's here!

Death, for Angelica Schuyler, was unsurprising.   
  
She’d been getting weaker for a while now, although she hadn’t told her husband or her sister that yet. Her dear sister, who was carrying the entire weight of the Hamilton name on her shoulders while trying to raise the entire brood of children her selfish husband had left behind. 

 

But no. It had been years now, over a decade since she’d received word that Alexander had been shot. Burr had wisely disappeared (oh, if she ever saw that cowardly fool again…), and Eliza had forgiven her husband for all his faults. It was good, Angelica reflected, that it was Eliza and not her that Alexander had married. Eliza was the good one, the forgiving one, the  _ kind _ one. She was better than Alexander had ever deserved, but perhaps she was what he had needed. And she had loved him, still loved him, if the effort she put into preserving his legacy was any indicator. 

 

Of course Angelica had assisted her. Of  _ course _ . Because no matter what she felt now towards the man she had once so passionately loved, she still adored her little sister and would do whatever she asked. 

 

But she was weak now. Some fever had overtaken her and left her to her bed (which was more frustrating than she could express; she had once danced with kings and was now left weak and old in her bed), with her sister and husband fussing over her. Ah, John. She might have never loved him passionately beyond their elopement (which was both for status and to infuriate her father, who suspected John of being a Tory at heart), but their marriage had a comfortable feel to it. They’d had two children together, raised them to adulthood and seen them happy. Even now, there was love in his eyes as he tended to her, tempting her with food and holding her as she slept.

 

He wasn’t Alexander. But that might have been a good thing. 

 

She knew she was breaking their hearts, fading away like she was, but she wasn’t upset. She’d done great good in her life. She’d befriended Thomas Jefferson (something that Alexander had been positively infuriated by, which only encouraged her to maintain the friendship), raised two wonderful children, and helped her sister in her time of greatest need. She’d already buried a beloved brother in law, her dear younger sister, her favorite nephew and both of her parents, seemingly back to back. She was so tired. It was her time. 

 

As she faded, she requested something she had no right to ask: to be buried in Trinity Church near Alexander. “My dear Elizabeth,” she murmured, clasping her sister’s hand tightly. “It is not for his sake, but that I could not bear to be separate from you and the rest of my family, across an ocean or across a street.Please.” Of course, Eliza had agreed. Of course she had. 

 

Finally, one night, she slipped away in her sleep, closing her eyes and breathing her last. 

 

* * *

  
  


When she opened her eyes, it was to a blur of yellow satin tackling her. “Angelica!” It only took a moment before she was laughing and embracing her baby sister. 

 

“Peggy! Oh, dear, sweet Peggy, I’ve missed you terribly,” she said with a laugh, hugging her close, and then looking up and smiling broadly. “Mama, Papa!” She reached out and let her entire family embrace her. She felt so young, the wrinkles gone from her hands, her body back to how it had been before she’d borne two children with it. She laughed and spun her sister around before looking around. 

 

“And where is the rest of the family? Namely, the Hamilton side of it?” she asked with a sharper grin. 

“Pops is hiding. We sent John and President Washington to go get him,” Philip said, stepping out and reaching out to embrace his aunt. She held him close, remembering how grieved they had all been at his loss. Alexander in particular,she remembered. 

 

“Oh, sweet boy. It is so good to see you again. And also, your father should know he can’t hide from me forever,” Angelica promised, ruffling his hair and looking up as they heard yelling from nearby. 

 

“No! John, you can’t make me! She is going to murder me, my dear Laurens, a man who loved me would not do that! Excellency, I can  _ not  _ believe you are supporting this!”

 

“For God’s sake, Alexander, you are already dead! What’s the worst she can do to you?”

 

“You never met her, John! She is devious and vengeful and I  _ broke her sister’s heart! _ ”

 

“You broke Peggy’s sister’s heart too, and she seems...tolerant of you.”

 

“ _ I never slept with Peggy.” _ On that note, John dragged Alexander into the room with a snort, shoving him towards Angelica, who watched with crossed arms as he visibly quailed in front of her. 

 

“A-Angelica. Hello. You’re looking--”  _ Crack _ . She reached out and slapped him, to the visible cringing of the rest of their little audience, and then embraced him tightly 

 

“You are a fool, Alexander, but I have missed you.”She kissed his forehead, “I’m glad you’re happy here, and you’re very lucky that Eliza forgave you long ago.” She noted the lack of surprise on his face and sighed. “You’ve been watching her, haven’t you? Somehow?”

 

“Obsessively,” John offered with a small, sympathetic smile. “Especially for those first couple of years. Once he saw that she was going to be alright, we started to be able to peel him away.” Angelica snorted, but that did soften her towards him a little. His one truly redeeming quality: he had loved Eliza. 

 

“Alright, then. Show me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts:
> 
> -Angelica did actually elope with her husband John Church in 1777 because her father suspected him of being more British leaning,despite the fact that he ran supplies and weapons for the Americans and French. I don't know how loving their marriage was, but I assume that they were at least friends,since he seemed genuinely heartbroken upon her death. 
> 
> -Most historians agree that if Angelica DIDN'T have an affair with Hamilton, they both definitely WANTED to. Peggy, on the other hand, DEFINITELY DIDN'T. (Peggy, clearly,is the only one with any sense)
> 
> -Angelica was actually good friends with Jefferson,who definitely had a crush on her. He gave her a painted portraiture of himself which, true to Jefferson's typical behavior, is both awkward, a bit arrogant, and adorable. There was no indication that I could find that they were lovers,but he had some sort of crush. She also gave him the Federalist Papers her brother-in-law had written to read, which I imagine just began their rivalry. 
> 
> -Angelica and Eliza lost a LOT of family around the turn of the century. Peggy died in March 1801. Philip died in November 1801. Their mother died in March 1803. Alexander died in July of 1804. Their father died in November of 1804. 
> 
> Thanks to all who commented, especially with historical facts! Tell me what you think!


	6. Hercules Mulligan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I'm still determined to finish this, but with this being my first year teaching and Open House being on WEDNESDAY, I've been a bit preoccupied! I can't promise when the next chapter will be out, but if I had to bet, the LATEST date would be Labor Day, since that'll be a long weekend.

When death came for Hercules Mulligan, he was content. He’d never sought glory or to be remembered, the way so many of his friends had; he was a spy, after all. Seeking glory was a sure way to get yourself hanged in those days, or shot (poor Laurens). 

 

No, Hercules had always set himself more attainable goals. He hated the British, even now, both for their atrocities against the United States and for the atrocities his father had recounted to him done against the Irish. Atrocities they still suffered under. He wondered if there would be any Revolution for his family still over there, but...well. He’d fought his war. He’d won his war. 

 

Hercules knew that if he was remembered, it would be as footnote to history. The man that saved Washington’s life, maybe; perhaps the man that had housed the young powerhouse that was Alexander Hamilton (and he still remembered meeting his friend, barely more than a boy at the time with Loyalist tendencies and a gaunt, hungry look in his eyes that never quite faded as he got older. If he was only remembered as the man who brought Hamilton to the side of patriotism, that would be enough, he thought). But he was content with being a footnote; he’d done what he set out to do. He’d freed his home from the clutches of the British. He’d married a good woman, had eight wonderful children. It was nothing that would go down in the history books, perhaps, certainly nothing worthy of a book of its own, but he was content with contributing his little bit to the world. 

 

He’d left it a better place than he found it. That was enough.

 

Now, his wife passed on not long ago, his children around him, his grandchildren around him, Hercules was just...content. Yes, he was dying, and it might not be as glorious as being shot from your horse in a grand war (John) or as ignominious as being shot in a duel by one of your first friends (honestly, he didn’t expect much more of Alexander; someone was bound to shoot that boy someday), but he was happy. He bade his farewells to his children, and closed his eyes. 

 

* * *

  
  


The first thing he felt as he opened his eyes again was a very familiar form. “Elizabeth,” he murmured, smiling and standing, cuddling his wife close. She’d always been smaller than him, and he could feel his youthful strength returned. He laughed and spun her around, kissing her deeply before a vaguely familiar voice interrupted them. 

 

“Hercules! Holy fuck, it’s about time, we’ve been waiting  _ forever _ ,” John Laurens shouted, running across the room and tackling Hercules into a hug. 

 

“Oh, gee, I’m sorry that I decided to die like a sane individual and not run off and get shot at the earliest opportunity,” Hercules said, but he was grinning and hugging his friend close. “Let me look at you. Yep. Same old John. Where’s gunshot victim number two? Your better half? Founding father without a father?”

 

“WAIT, are they calling me that?  _ Please _ tell me they are calling me a founding father!” a shout came, as Alex tripped over nothing in his haste to get to Hercules. The boy had always had the grace of a newborn foal if he wasn’t thinking about it, the former spy mused with a grin. 

 

“I’m not telling you nothing. If you wanted to see your legacy, you shouldn’t have let Aaron Burr shoot you. I told you to just stay out of the election, didn’t I? What did I tell you, Hamilton?” Alex shuffled his feet. 

 

“You said to let the rest of my party figure out who to vote for on their own and just stay out of it for once,” he mumbled. “But--!”   
  


“No buts!” Hercules was surprised to hear himself echoed by half the room, including the Washingtons, Angelica Schuyler, a woman who he could only guess was Hamilton’s mother (same eyes, and Alex shied away from her and shielded his ear protectively), another woman who was probably John’s mother (same deal with the ear cradling, it was hysterical), and… “Philip. Hey, little man, it’s good to see you. Your mom really misses you, still.” He embraced the boy that was practically a nephew to him as well.

 

“Yeah? How’s Angie doing?” Philip asked. “I know I should watch, but…”   
  
“No, she’s...not worse. She’s happy, which is the best we can hope for with her, you know.” Hercules wasn’t stupid; Alexander was soaking up the news just like his son, but the idiot could never just  _ ask _ , could he?

 

“And Eliza’s doing well, too, Alexander. We still talk. I even got the chance to see Lafayette, recently, on his grand tour of America.”

 

“Fucking Monroe with his fucking ‘he’s too close to Britain’ bullshit. ‘Has too much influence over the President’ my ass, I couldn’t get anything done--”   
  


“Oh my God, Pops,  _ let it go _ . You’re  _ dead _ , Washington is dead, and Monroe is the President! Move on!” Philip sighed, exasperated, and Alex sulked until Hercules hugged him. 

 

“You’re still that sixteen year old that wouldn’t shut up, aren’t you?” he laughed, shaking his head. “Come on. I want to see what an old, decrepit Lafayette is getting up to.” They all walked into the viewing room, only to hear a moment later: 

 

_ “IS HE DINING WITH JEFFERSON AND MADISON? HE IS DEAD TO ME!” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts:
> 
> -I, for one, am sick of women being erased from history. Try Googling Hercules's wife. Go ahead. THERE'S NOTHING THERE. So I am saying that she died before him because artistic license.  
> -Also, once again, there is no reference for how Hercules might have died. He was in his mid eighties so I'm saying he just got sick and passed away peacefully.   
> -Hercules is largely credited with turning Hamilton to the side of the Revolutionaries. Having lived in a fairly Loyalist British colony, surrounded by Loyalists,and then moving to a place with a lot of Loyalists (seriously, New York was KNOWN for being pro-British at this time; Hercules and the Sons of Liberty there were definitely outliers in this case), Hamilton was, predictably, Loyalist. However, he lived with Mulligan after coming to America and, when he wasn't in school, would sit in the shop and listen to Mulligan and his rowdy Sons of Liberty friends, which eventually turned him into an ardent Patriot.   
> -Some speculate that Hamilton actually recruited Mulligan into the spy ring.   
> -Hercules did emigrate to America from Ireland when he was six years old, and while America wasn't necessarily pro-Irish at the time (or, you know, pro-immigrant at all, actually), England was...also pretty anti-Irish. England enforced many of the same oppressive laws against Ireland as they did against America, but also had the Penal Codes, which (from my understanding) basically said you had to be Protestant to hold office, effectively disenfranchising mostof Ireland's native population. There's no evidence of Hercules being Catholic (in fact, his membership in Trinity Church, an Episcopalian rectory, indicates that he was Protestant), but nevertheless, the unrest in Ireland likely prompted the move to America  
> -On that same note, Ireland actually erupted into rebellion in 1798, not particularly long after America's Revolution (England must have been so furious at us, disrupting the status quo like that). It was quelled after three months of fighting and claimed 30,000 lives; its failure is often partially attributed to lack of assistance from the French, who...had their own issues. *cough* guillotine *cough* Napoleon *cough*  
> -Due to his success as a spy, Hercules was viewed as a Loyalist after the war, putting him at risk of having his business burned down, and himself being tarred and feathered or even killed. Washington (perhaps at the advisement of Hamilton) actually stopped after reviewing some troops in New York to have breakfast with Hercules and order a shit ton of clothes, declaring him a friend of liberty and probably saving his career and possibly life
> 
> -Part of the reason we know so little about Hercules Mulligan, especially after the war, is because he didn't write very many letters to people that were important. He and Alexander were good friends, but they also lived right down the street from each other, so letters would have been obnoxious. And, while I stuck it in here for the sake of the play, there's actually no evidence that Lafayette and Hercules would have ever met; Lafayette was a Major General and Hercules was a spy, after all. 
> 
> -Hercules had eight kids. Hamilton had eight kids. I imagine them just having like ginormous play dates, honestly
> 
> -James Monroe, the fifth President of the United States, was a Virginian Democratic-Republican who did not like Hamilton (I know, you're shocked and amazed) and who invited Lafayette (once he was basically retired in France and seething against Napoleon) to go on a tour of the states. Initially intending to visit only the original 13, Lafayette actually visited all 24 of the states that were made back then, with lavish celebrations thrown wherever he went
> 
> -When Washington was President, Monroe did say that he was worried about an aging Washington being overly influenced by Hamilton, who he thought was too close to England. We don't have Hamilton's response to that, but I imagine it was somewhere along the lines of "SIT DOWN, JAMES, YOU FAT MOTHER----" 
> 
> -Lafayette and Jefferson were actually good friends, and Lafayette did stop on his tour to dine with Jefferson and Madison (who apparently just showed up randomly. Oh Jemmy), as well as with the oldest living former President, Adams. I can't imagine Alexander was pleased.
> 
> Once again, sorry about all the facts! Tell me what you think, any fun facts you've discovered, or just how your day is going I guess. Next up is Jefferson!


	7. Thomas Jefferson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Sorry? Tbh I've been struggling with the writing vibe lately, and this story actually takes a fair amount of research. I can't promise anything about my next updates because the school year is starting soon and I've got trainings and meetings to go to on TOP of getting my classroom set up and planning for next year and *hyperventilates*.   
>  So this was me avoiding all the other stuff I need to be doing!  
> Also, you know how I complained about how everyone else doesn't have enough detail about their deaths. I TAKE IT ALL BACK. I'm still a little nauseous from reading about the things that afflicted Jefferson as he died. Eesh.   
> Last thing and then I'll let you read: I was trying to walk a thin line of being understanding towards the whole Thomas and Sally situation without justifying it, but I'm not sure how well I did. To be clear: I believe what he did was incontrovertibly wrong. The power imbalance in that situation overwhelms any possible consent she may have given, and I find the fact that he freed her children but not her disgusting. I do apologize if I in any way seem accepting of the situation in this; however, it is told from Thomas's POV and I don't know if he really found anything wrong with what he did.

 

Death, for Thomas Jefferson,  _ needed to fucking get here already _ . He considered himself a patient man, but when you spent eight years with constantly declining health...well, at a certain point you got sick of it. Especially since there was no dignity in his illnesses. He didn’t get shot like his rival, Hamilton, had (and although he would never admit to missing the bastard...well. There just hadn’t been anyone like him since the day he passed), he didn’t die relatively peacefully in his bed like Washington, he didn’t even have the dignity of dying of a fever!

 

No, instead it seemed as though the very devil himself was determined to make Thomas’s death as miserable and drawn out as possible. If he were a more religious man, he might wonder if this was God’s penance upon him for his desecration of his holy book, but even death was not enough to make Thomas believe in that nonsense. 

 

Still. First it had just been the aches and pains of old age, so he’d gone to the springs to correct it.  _ Then _ he’d gotten a boil on his seat, which had been uncomfortable, to say the least. While his doctors had done well to clear that up with their medicines, those seemed to almost make it worse. He developed horrifically loose bowels, swollen legs and joints, a boil on his  _ face _ , and, perhaps worst of all, he couldn’t  _ hear _ . He couldn’t hear the music that was occasionally played to soothe him, couldn’t hear Sally’s voice as she came in and spoke to him, could only hear the sounds as if he was deep beneath water and they were far above it. 

 

It was abhorrent. 

 

He’d never thought that he would despise his own mental acuity, but he had come to loathe the fact that his mind stayed sharp as his body slowly wasted away. He hated that he was aware for every second of his demise, that he could feel age and illness finally catching up to him. Soon, he had to give up his daily horseback rides. 

 

When he woke up one day unable to urinate, Thomas knew that his life was coming to a close. The doctor managed to, through a painful procedure Thomas was going to his best to forget, get the lines open again, but if his body could forget something so simple as making water…

 

He called in his lawyer with his will. He had a promise to make to a woman he cared for very deeply. His children, for all that he could never claim them as his own, would be freed. Two of them were already free. Beverly and Harriet, free and living as white. He knew that with a single word he could condemn them, but he never would. Madison and Eston, then, remained to be freed upon his death. His youngest sons. With Beverly, his only surviving sons, although he could never, ever claim them as such. 

 

Martha, his dearest daughter, his last surviving child, would be his only legacy. At least, he mused, she had plenty of children to survive--he had eleven wonderful grandchildren by her, so whatever defect had plagued his wife and himself had not passed on to her. She tended to him now devotedly, with Sally at her side. 

 

Sally. While Thomas would, even now, rarely admit that Alexander was right...there was no excusing what he was doing now. He could make all the arguments in the world for keeping her as his slave and his concubine until now--that he could better protect her this way, that he could provide for his bastards better like this, that they had a better life--but now, with his death awaiting him, and his will freeing her children, his weakness was inexcusable. With a stroke of his pen, he could write freedom for her just as he’d written it for his country, so many years ago. With a stroke of ink, Sally would be a free woman. 

 

He didn’t write it. 

 

Instead, he made sure that Madison and Eston were freed, fulfilling the promise he’d made to Sally so many years ago in France, when she could have left him and been a welcome guest to any home in Paris.  _ “Promise me, Thomas. Promise me that if I stay with you, if I act as wife to you, that you will free my children.  _ **_Our_ ** _ children. Swear that to me, upon your wife Martha’s grave and your daughter’s life. Swear it, Thomas, or I will leave now, _ ” she had sworn, and he’d been so weak, then, so desperate to just  _ not be alone _ , that he had agreed. And now, he was keeping his word to the letter, even as he knew that there was nothing crueler than to keep this woman bound to his estate, free to be sold. 

 

Perhaps his daughter would be stronger than he could be. Perhaps she would free the woman they all knew he had taken to his bed. 

 

After signing his will, he grew weaker and weaker. Still, he knew the 4th was approaching, and he was determined to see his country’s 50th anniversary before he left this world. When the fever came on the 3rd, he knew his time was up. He couldn’t focus, the pain and exhaustion  draining the energy from him. 

 

“My only pang is leaving you, my dear,” he murmured to his daughter, and pretended not to see Sally in the corner close her eyes and turn away, shoulders tight. “I wish only that I was leaving you a better inheritance.”   
“We will find our own way, Papa. You have given us the strength to do that. Just rest.” His eyes fluttered closed. 

 

When he woke, he knew what day it was. “It’s the Fourth of July,” he murmured. He could feel the date in his bones, the day that the world was spun on its head forever. His doctor frowned at him, offering him laudanum. “No, doctor, nothing more. I need…” He struggled into a sitting position, assisted by his family and doctor. The servants, knowing it was time, had gathered around the edges, Sally among them. 

 

“I...thank you for your service to me, unwilling though it was.” How ironic, that the great wordsmith of America should be unable to find the words now, when they mattered most! “I ask only that you continue to serve...to serve my daughter, as you have always so loyally served me. Whatever wrongs I have done you,” and his eyes flickered to Sally, and he could only imagine that those might be tears in her eyes, “I beg of you your forgiveness, for I have always been a weaker man than I ought.” He held her gaze for a moment before she gave him--or he may well have imagined it, fevered and near-delirious as he was--the slightest nod of...acknowledgement? Forgiveness? Whatever it was, he would have to accept it, as his body demanded of him rest once more. Somehow, deep inside, he knew he would not wake from this one, just as he knew that this was the day that his words had set a country free. 

 

“Just rest, Papa. It’s alright now. Just sleep.” It was alright, he wanted to tell his daughter. It was just fine, because he was going to be with everyone he’d lost. His wife, his lost children...hell, even fucking Hamilton. Thomas closed his eyes and fell asleep. Several hours later, he finally passed on. 

 

* * *

 

“Thomas, love. Thomas, it’s time to wake up, dear.” Thomas groaned, and the first thing he was aware of was that he wasn’t  _ hurting  _ anymore. His joints didn’t ache, he didn’t feel the boil on his face, his broken wrist no longer pained him, his bowels felt normal...he felt  _ right  _ again, and he couldn’t stop the soft sigh of relief. 

 

The second thing he noticed was that voice. That  _ voice _ , a voice he hadn’t heard in over forty years. The voice that had once brought him the greatest of joys, and the absence of which brought him his deepest sorrows. “Martha?” He was almost frightened to open his eyes. This wouldn’t be the first time that he had imagined the love of his life at his side, only to open his eyes and find himself alone in the world again. 

 

“It’s me, darling. Are you going to open your eyes?” Thomas considered it, then shook his head. “And why not?” He could hear the laughter in her voice, and God Almighty, he’d nearly forgotten the sound of her laugh. 

 

“Because when I do, you’ll be gone. I’ll open my eyes and I’ll be alone again.” Thomas couldn’t even be embarrassed by the way his voice cracked on those words, so deep was his fear that his was all just some fevered delusion.

 

“Oh, my love. No, none of that, now. We’ll never be apart again, my dearest Thomas, just open your eyes for me, there we are.” He slowly opened his eyes, and he spent just a moment drinking her in. That auburn hair, those sparkling hazel eyes that had so dimmed after their last child, as sickness had wasted her away...and why had he never commissioned a portrait of her? He should have, he should have had something more than a measly piece of hair to remember his gorgeous wife…

 

Tears filled his eyes, and before he could restrain himself, he was sobbing into his wife’s shoulder, harsh, wracking sobs as all the grief he’d shoved away all these years, all the pain he’d tried to forget in the body of Sally and in the work that their nation demanded, in Monticello that he’d changed so that not a bit of it reminded him of what he’d lost...all of it came pouring out now that he was once again with the one person he’d trusted himself entirely to. 

 

“Shh, now, love, it’s alright. You’re alright, now. It’s all alright now,” Martha murmured, combing her fingers through his hair gently. 

 

“Martha, my love, my dearest, forgive me. I kept my oath to you in fact but not in spirit. I could not, Martha, I was so  _ alone _ and our  _ daughter _ , our sweet little Polly, our gopher, died and I just...I couldn’t…”

 

“Hush, Thomas. I know. I watched it all, I saw you and...her.” Martha swallowed hard. “I will not pretend to like it much at all, for so many reasons, but...oh, my dear, do you think I would hold your pain against you? It was not the right thing to do, but it was what you did, and that is behind us now. There’s nothing to be done, and you are still my beloved Thomas, no matter what. Come on, dear heart. I believe there is someone you would like to meet?” Thomas frowned, but stood obediently and dried his eyes as his wife led him out of the room they were in. 

 

“Papa!” If Thomas had been expecting such a cry, he would have only expected Polly--the rest of his lost children were too young to know such a thing, barely toddlers. Instead, he found himself tackled by three children that were much older than the infants he had set in the ground so long ago. “Jane? Peter? Lucy? But...how…”    
  
“I don’t understand it either, but they have been growing here. I suspect they’ll grow until they’re adults, then stop, but I try not to question our joy.” Thomas felt his eyes welling again as he peppered kisses all over their faces, holding them close. Then he looked up at the eldest of his children, the one that had lived to bear three of her own children before wilting just like her mother before her. 

 

“My gopher,” he murmured fondly, and she rolled her eyes even as she moved to embrace her father.    
  
“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, I prefer Maria,” she murmured, hugging him tightly. “Or Polly, if you must. Not  _ gopher _ , I’m a grown woman.” He smiled and kissed the top of her head, letting himself bask in this moment. 

 

He was at peace, finally, with his family around him. He was happy.

 

The idyllic moment was, to Thomas’s amused laugh, broken by a very familiar voice screeching “ _ ADAMS YOU MOTHERFUCKER! I HAVE A FUCKING BONE TO PICK WITH YOU YOU GODDAMN IRRELEVANT PIECE OF SHIT!”  _

 

“...I suppose John just passed.” Thomas briefly considered going and saving his friend-turned rival-turned-friend again from Hamilton, but shrugged and decided he could bicker with the immigrant later. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, Jefferson was a stupidly complex person to write, which was part of the reason this was so late coming out to you guys (and I was...lazy...and busy...and...ahem. Moving on). Some fun facts (who am I kidding, these aren't fun facts, these are almost all SAD facts and I am going to post this and then go take a shower of SADNESS):
> 
> -Jefferson really did die in horrible agony. I actually toned it down a bit, because JFC, but if you're up for feeling really bad for a morally dubious historical figure, go read about his death on the Monticello website. He was in agony for years.   
> -Nobody's entirely sure what Thomas's actual last words were. On the last day of his death, he did ask or say something about it being the Fourth of July, refused the laudanum his doctor offered, and addressed his servants. What he said to his servants was not recorded, so I took some liberties with that (because goddammit, SOMEBODY owes Sally Hemings an apology!!)  
> -I'm sure most of you know about the Jefferson Bible, but in case you don't, it's basically Jefferson's recreation of the gospels. He took out any mention of divinity and miracles, and left only the morals and life of Jesus. He was fairly unorthodox in his beliefs, mostly aligning himself with Christian morals and teachings, but not following the orthodox church. I find it an interesting comparison to the devout Hamilton, personally.   
> -Mostly because I can't let this go, DO YOU KNOW WHAT THEY DID BACK THEN WHEN SOMEONE COULDN'T URINATE??? DO YOU? bECAUSE I DO NOW!!! GOOGLE IT, I DARE YOU!  
> -Jefferson really did free two of Sally's children before his death--their daughter Harriet and son Beverly. Her last two children, Madison (real subtle there, TJeffs, really) and Eston were freed in his will.   
> -Jefferson did NOT free Sally in his will. However, shortly after his death, his daughter (and last surviving child) Martha did free Sally, and she went to live with her children in Charlotte. So she was eventually freed, at least.   
> -Thomas died in tremendous debt, and his belongings were auctioned off to pay it. While some of his belongings were disposed of as he requested, the rest were sold at public auction. His daughter sold Monticello several years after his death.   
> -Martha Jefferson Randolph, Thomas's only surviving (legitimate) child and heir, was devoted to her father and tended to him in his last days. She also did have twelve children, with eleven of them surviving to adulthood.   
> -On that note, the other child to survive to adulthood, Mary Jefferson (nicknames: gopher, Polly, and Maria) had three children, but died when she was 25 after the birth of her third child. It's speculated that both Mary and her mother Martha had diabetes, which is worsened by childbirth, but it's impossible to know. Whatever it was, it clearly missed the younger Martha, who lived to the good age of 62.   
> -Thomas wore a locket with a piece of his wife's hair in it at all times after her death, even wearing it on his own deathbed. The two were devoted to each other, and he collapsed out of grief when she died. She asked him to not marry again, and he kept that oath his entire life. It's believed she feared for her children's wellbeing with a stepmother.   
> -There is, in fact, no surviving portrait or image of Mrs. Jefferson. Existing reports portray her as I did in this fic, with auburn hair and hazel eyes, looking a great deal like her daughters.   
> -Thomas's other three legitimate children did not live out of their toddler years. His only son, Peter, died within weeks of his birth. Lucy died when she was 3. Jane died when she was maybe a year old.   
> -John Adams famously said "Thomas Jefferson still survives" on his own deathbed, when in fact Jefferson had died five hours earlier. While I won't be writing a chapter about him (because I just...don't...want...tooo...), I do find it funny to imagine that Alexander was too busy tearing Adams a new one to worry about Thomas. Also, after reading all those horrible things about how he died, I just...kinda wanted to Thomas to have a happy end without fighting? Don't worry, those two will get to bicker over who's the prettiest when America's favorite fighting frenchman shows up. 
> 
> I will try to write the next chapter eventually, but I make no promises with the craziness in my world for the next month or so. Ha, let's be real, I'm a teacher, my entire world is craziness 10 months out of the year. As always, comment, tell me if I missed something or if you know some fun facts (I know we have some Jefferson geeks out there--lemme have it!!). Again, I do apologize if I was not as delicate with the Sally Hemings situation--it's a difficult line to tread, and I did my best! :) Good night lovelies, and thank you for sticking around!


End file.
